


Upstanding Books and Sorrowful Diaries

by Heurtebizzz (hertie)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD and BBC canon fusion, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Case Fic, Drug Use, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, John Watson is a very unreliable narrator, M/M, Pining, Porn What Porn, References to a Period-Typical Homophobia, Unreliable Narrator, mostly plot, pining Sherlock Holmes, plot heavy, post-s3 Victorian AU of sorts, very unreliable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5527391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hertie/pseuds/Heurtebizzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the summer 1894, Mycroft Holmes requests his brother's help in the search of a noble foreigner gone missing. Watson writes up what looks like an interesting case.</p><p>Holmes has been keeping a journal, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upstanding Books and Sorrowful Diaries

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my Johnlock Christmas Gift Exchange present for the tumblr user [martinjfreeman](http://martinjfreeman.tumblr.com/). Merry Christmas, dear fellow!
> 
> The fic has not been beta'd, and if someone wants to offer help, I would be simply thrilled. 
> 
> Essentially, I wrote a fusion of the ACD and BBC canons, so some of the events referenced in the plot are ACD 'verse compliant while others took place in the BBC 'verse. However, characterizations are leaning towards BBC Sherlock rather heavily. As you will see, being a lover of both canons, I had a lot of fun here. 
> 
> Now, the title and the epigraph are taken from a paper I read for one of my academic projects. It was about how in the Soviet Union, when homosexuality was outlawed, queer translators were able to convey hidden meanings of the forbidden same-sex love through translations of foreign literature, relying on codes and subtextual hints. I chose the poem below precisely because it is not the original Baudelaire: it is a translation of a translation. Translation is always a re-telling of the original story. It produces new meanings, new ideas, and new interpretations of the original context. This fic is not about translation per se but it is about different re-tellings of the same story with a focus on unreliable narration. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

 

_***_

_Innocent, honestly naïve_  
_Reader of upstanding books,_  
_Throw away this sorrowful diary_  
_Of sin, repentance and torment._

 _If you did not achieve under Satan_  
_The perfection of knowledge,_  
_Throw it away! You won’t understand this cry_  
_And will say: He’s indulging in whims out of_  
_boredom._

 _But if, with a sober mind,_  
_You have the strength to avoid the abyss,_  
_Read it, in order to love me._

 _Brother, who’s searching in our_  
_iron age,_  
_Like me, for the uneven road to your_  
_paradise,_  
_Pity me… Or be damned!_

  
(Baudelaire, _Epigraphe pour un livre condemné_ , translated into Russian by Ivan Likhachev whose translation was translated into English by Brian James Baer)

 

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE NORTHERNER

In the middle of summer 1894, I had to abandon the seaside vacation with my wife in Brighton and rush back to London at the news that my friend Sherlock Holmes felt seriously ill from exhaustion. I found him at home, completely demoralized, paler and thinner than usual, with Mrs. Hudson fussing around all worried like a hen over her chicks. From her I found out that the great detective had been working on a particularly hard case, one involving a diamond-smuggling ring, and that not only he was avoiding eating and sleeping as usual but to top it off, he had spent five days before my arrival mostly in and out of Baker Street, reappearing every time in a new disguise and clearly alternating between hiding somewhere at stakeouts and chasing after criminals across the metropolis. He did close the case, sending all of the ring members to Wormwood Scrubs, to Scotland Yard's greatest delight, but the effect of such wild abuse on Holmes' health was horrendous. Having judged reasonably that a hot maritime climate would not do him any good - my friend has never been at his best during the summer heat - I sent a wire to my wife apologizing for not coming back soon and set off to prepare for a two week trip up north to Scotland, hoping that spending time out in the picturesque countryside and engaging in vigorous exercise would help Holmes refresh his mind and revive his spirits. To be frank, my friend did not particularly appreciate the idea but his weak state kept him from protesting too much, and for once I thought we were to have things my way.

_FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_July 13, Baker Street, London._

_These past five days have not been benevolent for me._

_Now when I have written it down, most of the summer has not been good. Sentiment has been clouding my mind over, and even the most convoluted cases I solved recently failed to provide so much needed distraction. Last night, unable to handle my disarrayed feelings anymore, I resorted to the aid of the old friend. Something must have gone terribly wrong after I injected the drug, for the next thing I remember is waking up late this morning, with excruciating pain streaming through every ligament and bone of mine, and John sitting at my bed, looking as if the death himself had just paid him a visit._

_"Oh thank God, Holmes!" He yelped. "Thank God you are alive."_

_"W-well, Watson, dying has not yet crossed my mind as a pleasant way to spend a quiet evening." I tried to cheer him up with a bit of humour, even though speaking was bringing the most intense pain to me at the moment._

_"But tell me, Doctor, what on earth happened? I must admit I feel rather uncomfortable."_

_"Well you sure must, Holmes." John's expression was both anger and worry. "I came home late from practice yesterday and found you on the settee: pale, gasping, and crippling in unnatural positions. You were having seizures! And that abominable narcotics kit was laying by your side. I am afraid you overdosed on the seven percent solution, which I did not even know you were back to taking. You know where I stand on your habits, Holmes, and how upset you make me by doing this to yourself, but right now you are still very weak and, as you doctor and your friend I cannot torture you with questions. Yet trust me, I have got many. And you will answer, as soon as you get better. But enough of this. You need to recuperate."_

_Here he was, my precious John, all care and hidden rage at my vices. As much as I was in physical pain already, I could not have helped feeling a particularly deep sting of something else. Guilt. I must have scared him badly. Made him worry about me. I tried as hard as I could to give him a reassuring smile but I am afraid what I produced must have looked more like a grimace of pain, because John's handsome face went from worried to frightened in a second._

_"What is happening? Are you feeling worse?"_

_"Every inch of my body... Is on fire..." I managed._

_I could see John contemplate his (and mine) options._

_"Well, for pain as strong as yours morphine would be an obvious choice, but I am not giving you that in your situation, Holmes, you have got to understand this. Describe the pain, please."_

_"It is like I had been run over by the post carriage. Twice. And flayed afterwards."_

_"Muscle pain then. Well, a hot bath would be optimal to relax your muscles, but I am not certain about its effects on your heart which is sure had been shaken by this, hmm, incident. So we had better wait to make sure you are not going to have a heart attack, which might be a possibility after your overdose. What I am going to do is to get you a couple of hot water bottles and heated blankets in bed and then, when you are warmed up, I am going to try some techniques of Swedish movement on you. Have you heard about it? Also known as massage, it is the last word in the treatment of muscular pain. I just bought a manual last month.”_

_In no time at all he had me stripped down to my underpants, laying on my belly, as he was kneeling above me, smearing a fragrant oil over my back._

_“How do you like the oil, Holmes? It is a rose tree oil from India, I bought it at that little colonial goods shop on Oxford Street, and its smell is just so exquisite.” His hands were sliding over my shoulder blades, fingers pressing down, searching for sore spots, and sending sparks of pleasure down my spine – the latter he was blissfully unaware of._

_I wonder sometimes, how is it possible he does not know what a lunatic he makes out of me?_

_Those hands. His hands. I was sure glad my exhausted state was sufficient enough to prevent any sort of a salacious response which under any other circumstances would have been immediately obvious. His hands, small and strong, running up and down my back, attending to every muscle, every tight spot, applying pressure simultaneously gentle and hard. So gentle it was almost unbearably wonderful. So hard it made every inch of my skin ache with profound pain which, however, quickly turned into a warm hum, spreading like thick honey throughout my body. Not surprisingly, I felt blood rushing to my face and was grateful I was not looking in John’s eyes, because even the great Sherlock Holmes with all his thespian talent would not be able to hide the strongest affection and desire I felt for my doctor's touches._

_"Oh, your skin is turning rosy. And your face, too." John noted, making my innards freeze in the horror of being exposed._

_"That is good, the heat and the massage must be working." He added, pleased. Dear John: sometimes I am happy you are not very luminous._

_When he was finished massaging my sore body, John told me to rest and went back to the sitting room. I, however, was restless. I could not stop thinking about his hands and what he had just done to me. The heat kept rising in me and where there was pain now was an ache, a desire, a lust so strong it could not be circumscribed. I reached down for myself under the blanket and focused, eyes closed, on the precious memory of John’s hands on my skin. I imagined how they would feel on other, more intimate parts of my body. Would he be as strong? As gentle? He would, no doubt. I fantasized of him touching me, imagined it was his fingers wrapped around me, thought of how his kisses would feel on my neck, my shoulders, behind my ears. I pushed myself over the edge thinking about his lips and finished off gasping, waves of release pulsing through my body, from my member to my brain, filling me with a fleeing joy that rapidly turned into emptiness. I wiped myself with a sheet and curled under the blanket, trying to calm down. The muscular pain was returning and I thought that a slumber would actually be a really good thing to do. The problem was that I could not sleep._

_Yes, John, you would be appalled if you ever discovered the thoughts I have about you and the things you make me do._

_Thinking about it, you would most likely be appalled at the very fact of me calling you by your Christian name. No one is allowed that, especially not me. But it is a little privilege I granted to myself in the privacy of this journal. Just like every erotic fantasy I entertain about you, calling you ‘John’ is what I cannot ever have. I consider this an act of charity on your side, even though you are not aware of it and will never be. It is not much after all, and I know how generous you are, John – I admire you for your generosity._

_John came back to check on me several hours later. He brought me a bowl of hot scotch broth. As he helped me sit up and eat, he asked about what had led me to this, as he put it, 'relapse.'_

_Oh, John. What do you want me to tell you? Definitely, not the truth. You would not take it. For if I shared even a minuscule detail of how I feel about you – the lust, the sentiment, the desperate desire to be with you, to own you, and to be owned by you – you would be running away from Baker Street as soon as possible, as far as you can. So I lied. Said I had been exhausted by the case of the diamond smugglers._

_"Rubbish! You solved it without leaving these rooms, in Lestrade's presence." John was growing impatient with me but I could not let him suspect anything. So I named a couple more cases that had kept me occupied. He still did not look fully convinced but settled on taking my words for what they were. Picking the empty bowl, he left me again for a while and returned with two train tickets and a pair of suitcases, saying we were going to Scotland, where fresh air and vigorous exercise would help me recover. I was not happy about the prospectus but thought better than protesting: I had upset my dear John too much already lately._

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE NORTHERNER, Cont.

In Scotland, we stayed in a little old inn hidden between fir-tree groves in the scenic valley surrounded by green hills. Sherlock Holmes, originally unimpressed by the whole enterprise of getting him out of London, seemed to have gotten his vitality back: less than an hour after we arrived and settled in our rooms, he was telling me everything he was able to deduce about the private lives of our innkeepers, down to the most intimate details which, out of the respect for the poor fellows, I should not disclose in this story. I was amazed, as always, but slightly exasperated too: this was precisely why I wanted to take Holmes away to the countryside, so my friend's overstimulated mind could get some rest, and not engage in deduction for the deduction's sake alone. Committed to keep Holmes away from further opportunities to overwork his mind, I took him up to the mountains and was utterly excited to see his attention diverted onto the variety of wild flora and fauna we encountered. After admiring a swarm of bees we saw on our way up, he spent some two full hours identifying every poisonous plant growing on the top of the hill and telling me about the variation in the adverse effects of each on a human being depending on the method of the contact with the plant, as well as said human's age, sex, and general state of health. Clearly, my plan was working: apart from treating the kingdom animalia and the kingdom plantae as crime scenes, Sherlock Holmes was enjoying our long walks in the hills and the bike rides down in the valley. Naturally, I started hoping that two weeks in such placid settings would improve his health tremendously. As always, I hoped too soon.

_FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_July 14, Evanton vicinity, Scottish Highland._

_Here we are in Scotland. Odd things happened and I should write them down, for John would definitely not include such matters in his chronicles._

_We are staying in a small inn owned by two men. As I was settling in our rooms, John spent some time talking to them about local attractions and leisure activities. Then he climbed up the stairs to help me unpack._

_“Well, Holmes,” he said. “These two innkeepers are so friendly.”_

_It is as if fate was tempting me!_

_“Are they really?” I asked, trying to appear absolutely indifferent._

_“Imagine that. They were very helpful with local maps, showing me all the worthy sights. They also asked about you and what we do in London, what kind of life we live.”_

_“And what did you tell them?”_

_“I did not want to attract unsolicited attention to your person, for you are quite famous, you know that. But I brought you here to rest and recuperate. So I just told them that we lodge together and live a life of two bohemians. They were really excited to hear that, so much so they promised to charge us half the price for these rooms. Not to mention they actually gave us the best rooms in all of the inn.”_

_I observed the innkeepers for about five minutes when we just arrived but that was enough to deduce a lot about them. Now I was fighting a desire to impress John by telling him about the real reason behind the two men’s amicable behavior, but I also hesitated if that was really necessary given what I would have to reveal. John, in turn, as if he had overheard the inner dispute I had been having with myself, looked at me curiously._

_“Well, you definitely must have deduced something interesting about our two hosts, have you not?”_

_So I told him, hoping with every bit of my mortal soul that John’s reaction would not be that of dismay. Perhaps, I was unconsciously testing the waters of his attitude on the subject?_

_“Did it occur to you, dear boy, that there is something queer about these two?”_

_“Not in the least, Holmes, what do you mean? They are just two hospitable fellows, this is it.”_

_“What are their names? Mr. Hall and Mr. Scudder, if I am not mistaken. Mr. Hall looks very refined to me, just think of the way he speaks or carries himself. When I was downstairs, I felt his gaze on me - on my jacket and trousers, to be precise. I suppose he was interested in the fashions and styles popular in London this season, and yet why_ _would he? It is not that there is any high society around to show off a prime dress.”_

_“So why would he, indeed?”_

_“Old habits die hard, dear doctor, if they ever do. My theory is that Mr. Hall used to belong to upper classes and lived a society life in London some twenty years ago, enjoying fashion, fine dining and other activities typical of his social standing. Certain extraordinary circumstances made him leave the capital and the life he had had there, and come here, to the highlands, where no one would recognize him and hence he could live freely a life of his choosing.”_

_John looked puzzled._

_“What about the other one?”_

_“Oh, the other one, Mr. Scudder, he is an interesting fellow as well. First, he is as far from upper classes as the sun from the earth. His speech betrays a thick cockney accent, and so do his simple, unassuming manners. However, here he is, running an inn in the middle of nowhere with Mr. Hall. What can one deduce from this set of evidence?”_

_John was silent for a minute, thinking. Then he tried._

_“They are on the run from something?”_

_“Splendid. They most certainly are. I think I know exactly what had brought them both here, and I dare naming it a sentiment.”_

_John’s expression has not changed a bit._

_“Care to elaborate?”_

_“Two men, Watson, from completely different social strata, retire together to a desolate area of Scottish mountains, where no one knows them so they can live a quiet life… in each other’s company. They must be lovers, fleeing the society that is not appreciative of this kind of sentiment. They go far away from a judging gaze of the public, far away from the law, where it is just them and nature, with the nearest settlement miles away. I would have died in these pastoral settings if I had to spend more than two weeks here, but perhaps for some the sacrifice is justified.”_

_“You are seriously saying that these two are like the men who like meeting each other in front of the Achilles statue in Hyde Park?”_

_“Absolutely.” I decided not to ask why John knows about the Achilles. On the other hand, it might be common knowledge, one never knows._

_“I see.” To my surprise and relief, John looked nothing like disgusted. If so, he appeared impressed and slightly bemused._

_“Now when you say that, they were particularly fond of each other when I was talking to them… Oh.” His beautiful face went lucid with a sudden realization. I decided to spare him an embarrassing acknowledgement and say it myself._

_“Yes, dear doctor, Mr. Hall and Mr. Scudder thought we were of their lot. That is why they were so friendly with you and allowed each other a moment of affection in your presence. They thought they could do it and you would understand.”_

_A long pause followed. John sat down on his bed, taking shoes off. He certainly was contemplating something. Finally, he looked at me._

_“You are not scandalized, are you?”_

_It was my turn to take a dramatic pause. And speak the truth._

_“You know my general thoughts on the nature of sentiment, Watson. In most cases it is a dangerous defect, resulting in the imbalance of chemicals affecting the proper functioning of our bodies and clouding our reasoning. As for the specifics, I do not really deem it relevant to distinguish between different kinds of sentiment, even though I am aware that common moralists think otherwise. But you know that I have never held a high opinion about common morals.”_

_John smiled bleakly._

_“I do know that, Holmes. You never cease to surprise me, do you know that? The power of your deductions is astonishing.”_

_I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks and thanked him curtly. Shortly after, John wished me good night. I settled in my bed, listening to the sound of his even breathing until merciful Morpheus came to take me in his calming arms._

_FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_July 15, Evanton vicinity, Scottish Highland._

_We discussed the innkeepers again today._

_We were high up in the hills, and I was in the middle of lecturing John on the toxic properties of Artemisia Absinthium, when he interrupted me all at once._

_“I have met men like that before, in the army.”_

_“Oh” was all I could say, not knowing where he was going with it. John continued, somewhat reluctantly._

_“I have been thinking about what you said yesterday and must admit that I agree with your point of view, Holmes. The society is unfair to people like Mr. Hall and Mr. Scudder. No one should be made an exile because of what is all but his nature. I do not think England has got it right about these folks.”_

_I told myself not to get my hopes high up. John has always been a man of progressive beliefs, and it should not be at all surprising that he would want to second my unorthodox view on the subject. I gave him a reticent smile and continued my discussion of the absinthium. John seemed to have said what he wanted to say, and we resumed our walk in the hills, never again returning to the topic of men who love other men._

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE NORTHERNER, Cont.

Long since before that time, I ought to have learnt that all things placid do not last long in the presence and company of Sherlock Holmes. Still, to my greatest chagrin, two days later we were summoned back to London by the wire from Holmes' brother, Mycroft. "Matter of highest importance. Return to London immediately," it read, and I thought that despite the usual vitriol between the siblings, for the first time in a while, Holmes could not be happier to receive a message from his brother. As for me, after a couple of initially futile attempts to appeal to Holmes' reason and convince him to stay in the highlands a little longer, I was left with nothing else than to follow my friend back to the capital, yet my frustration with him had not subsided in the slightest. Just the opposite: it was becoming harder and harder for me to watch the gross neglect and carelessness Holmes treated his health with. But what could I do? Just stay by his side and hope dearly that the circumstances would not be so critical that he requires my professional skills again.

London welcomed us back with chilly temperatures and the rough patches of clouds moving rapidly across the sky. The change only seemed to suit Holmes' moods. He never liked heat in the first place and, still weak after the last week's episode, he seemed quite happy to wrap himself in the burgundy dressing gown as soon as we reached Baker Street. Mycroft had been already waiting for us in the sitting room, at the coffee table, in front of the tray full of freshly baked pastries that no doubt came from Mrs. Hudson's oven not earlier than half hour ago. Impeccably dressed and perfectly composed as always, the older Holmes nevertheless was showing first sights of impatience, evident in the slight twitch of his left eyebrow and a nearly non-existent tap of his right shoe against the settee's leg. As we entered the room, taking off our hats and jackets, Mycroft gave us both a slight nod and immediately proceeded to the business.

"Oh hello brother mine. It looks like the mountain air was doing you good. I see your cheekbones are touched by a tidbit of tan. Pity I had to abort your little vacation so soon."

"Save your pity for your clerks, Mycroft," Holmes cut him off as abrasively as usual. "And tell me what royal scandal you want me to investigate this time."

"Very good, little brother, very good indeed." The older Holmes gave the detective an approving look. "It is a scandal, and it is royal, you guessed right."

"You know that I do not guess."

"Oh I do. But before I continue, please, remove Dr. Watson from the room."

Mycroft Holmes was employed by the British Government and I understood that the matters he was about to discuss must have been of great delicacy, so I was ready to comply and leave when Sherlock Holmes reached out and seized my wrist with his strong hand.

"Doctor Watson is not going anywhere if you want me to proceed any further."

"Holmes, I am flattered, but it is really not necessary, I understand the matters must be secret," I muttered, feeling immediate gratitude for my friend's trust.

Holmes ignored my words altogether, peering into his brother's face defiantly, his fingers still clutching onto my sleeve.

The older Holmes uttered a deep sigh.

"Well, I suspected this much of your reaction."

Sherlock Holmes produced a victorious grin, which it was his brother's turn to ignore, as he continued.

"Thankfully, Doctor Watson has just acknowledged his best understanding of the situation we are about to touch upon, so I need not to elaborate on what consequences it might bring upon all of us if what I am going to discuss ever leaves this room."

"Oh come on, brother," Holmes could not hide his annoyance any longer. "Very confidential, yes, the destiny of several European nations depends on it, yes, the press must not know, yes, we have been there before. Now, please, cut to the chase."

Mycroft Holmes produced another sigh and lifted a small envelope from the folder on the coffee table. From the envelope, he pulled out a photograph and handed it to the detective. Sherlock Holmes took it carefully, bringing it close to his squinting eyes. It was a photograph of a young girl, no doubt of noble origin and good wealth - even my inferior skills were enough to deduce that. Also, she was quite pretty: fair skinned and dark haired, with big almond shaped eyes and full flower-like lips. However, she did not look like anyone from Her Majesty's royal scions and I was certain I had never seen her before.

Holmes chuckled to himself, flipping the photograph back and forth between the long fingers.

"A Russian Duchess?"

Mycroft smiled approvingly, and I could not help but ejaculate my wonder:

"Holmes, how did you know?"

"Watson, it is as clear as a day. She looks royal, I am sure you guessed this much, and her facial features do not bear any resemblance with the blessed House of Hanover. She does, however, look very similar to Her Grace Maria Alexandrovna, the wife of Duke of Edinburgh. A second cousin, I suspect, none the less."

Mycroft nodded affirmatively, as Sherlock Holmes continued.

"One can tell with the greatest degree of probability by the way she looks at the photographer that she is near sighted and had to take the spectacles off. Hence great love of reading. Hence acute mind. She must be no older than nineteen years, received best education, obviously, therefore, she is well versed in poetry, music, equestrianism, and politics. She is fluent in at least five... no, seven languages, Latin and Old Greek included, and has a working knowledge of astronomy. As much as all offsprings of the Continental reigning houses are educated better than their less noble peers, she must be ahead any of them. No wonder she is a perfect candidate for marrying His Grace George."

"Things are not well between the British Crown and the Romanovs," said Mycroft Holmes with a distinct air of regret. He always had that feeling about himself when talking about royal matters as if they had been happenings in his own personal life. "The Muscovites have been expanding their interests in the mountains of Central Asia quite brazenly. They have already annexed the khanates of Khiva, Bukhara, and Kokand, and there are serious concerns they might have plans for India and Afghanistan, to say nothing of China. Besides, the very thought of the Franko-Russian Alliance is positively unnerving to many in the government. But enough of international politics. All I should say, brother mine, is that in the situation like this a marriage between representatives of two reigning houses appears to be highly desirable as a solution of improving the strained relationships between two nations. The young lady of this picture, whose life story you so artfully deduced, is indeed a Russian aristocrat and a niece of Great Duchess of Edinburgh. Do not give me this look, brother, we all know that even you can sometimes be wrong about details. Anyway, the latter fact is the main reason why she was chosen to be betrothed to His Grace George, Duke of Edinburgh's only son."

Sherlock Holmes shook his head, indicating annoyance.

"What is this all for, Mycroft? Surely you did not summon the good Doctor and me from Scotland to discuss over tea the intricacies of royal matrimonial engagements between first cousins. What is the real matter?"

Mycroft Holmes walked past his brother to the window, as if willing to check whether someone was listening behind the curtains. Satisfied with his examination, he returned to the table and picked the photograph from the detective's hands.

"Duchess Ksenia Konstantinovna of Russia arrived in London yesterday morning to meet with her fiancé's family. After a brief visit to Duke's residence at Clarence House, she left for a short promenade with her English governess, Miss Elise Hutchins. The weather was warm so they took a cabriolet. The duchess refused a coachman claiming she was perfectly capable of driving the carriage. Apparently, it is a skill every noble Russian has to learn, do not give me this look again, brother. According to my sources, the groom at Duke's residence is the last man who saw them alive. They never returned from their promenade. Obviously worried, Her Grace’s fiancé sent a search team which found the cabriolet three hours later near the Albert Dock, overturned on its side, the horse nearby. Both women are missing. The policeman in charge of the search claims there were clear signs of struggle inside the carriage. The women's hats and shoes, interestingly enough, were found lying just outside the cabriolet. The police suspects abduction for a ransom."

A contemplative look appeared on my friend's face.

"Was the Duchess' visit publicized?"

"Yes, there was a mention in The Times, and another in The Daily Telegraph."

"What about the governess? What do you know about her? Any possibility of her being involved with the abductors?"

"Miss Elise Hutchins, daughter of a girls' school headmaster, originally of Surrey, is said to be the woman of exceptional morals and loyalty. All I know is that her parents died when she was fifteen and, to sustain herself and a little brother, the young girl took a job of a governess, eventually going to Russia. She is twenty seven now, and has been Duchess' tutor and a companion for the last five years. They are said to have been inseparable. Her younger brother, Archibald, is now a medical student at the St. Thomas Hospital."

"Do you have her photograph?"

"I am afraid not, but I do have a verbal portrait," the older Holmes continued flipping through papers in his folder. "Green eyes, auburn hair, petite, looks less than her age, and has polite and quiet manners. Her voice is said to resemble that of a nightingale."

"Oh, what fun," remarked my friend, earning another frown from his brother.

"Sherlock, this is the matter of the highest importance and it needs to be solved immediately, before the press finds out. Please, keep your unnecessary comments to yourself and get busy finding Ksenia. The fate of our nation's international well-fare is dependent on you again, and, as much as I had personally rather not trust it in your hands, needs must."

"Oh, and do not worry, all your case related expenses will be covered, in addition to the very handsome compensation for your time and effort. So go, brother mine, go!"

Fearing that my friend would jump off his chair and start on his brother's assignment that very moment, I was just about to offer my protestations regarding his still very frail state of health, when Mycroft Holmes stood up from the settee, bowed to both of us and left. It was quite late by that time, and suddenly I felt very tired. Our day began hundreds of miles away in another part of the country and included a long journey back by train, and now it was ending in this quiet room at Baker Street with a case promising to fill our near future entirely. Despite the first tingles of anticipation growing inside me at the thought of the investigation my friend was no doubt to give me the privilege of watching, documenting and possibly even assisting in, the weight of the day's events was growing on me. I felt fatigued and could not wait to go to bed. As if reading my mind, Holmes got up and, picking up a candle from the mantle, and headed towards his bedroom.

"I am off for now, dear boy. We shall start on the case first thing next morning."

"What do you think about it, Holmes?" I could not help but ask. "Have you solved it yet? Looks like it might be a gruesome abduction after all."

Holmes gave me a look that was probably meant to be frolicsome but came out all half-smiling and half-weary, and I noted that he must be rundown just as much. The candlelight was giving his pale face a sallow hue.

"By no means, dear Doctor. It is my opinion that the case is trivial and yet it is not what it looks like."

"How come?" Even when on the brink of exhaustion, my companion would not cease to be intriguing, as if provoking me for more questions.

The great detective smiled somewhat absently, looking past me.

"The circumstances of the young lady's disappearance are easy to explain, I believe. I hope that to-morrow you will be able to see it with your own eyes. However, we might be dealing with an extraordinary person here. Is not it odd, Watson, that a young woman of blue bloods is capable of driving a cabriolet? I wonder, what else she is skilled at."

Next, he wished me good night and disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the last question hanging emptily in the air.

_FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_July 17, Baker Street, London._

_Mycroft interrupted our time in Scotland too soon. We had to return to London to attend to his issue, which seems highly trivial so far. Especially because Mycroft thinks it is not. Trivial in the motif, it is. At the same time, the premise of the issue is quite ridiculous. A case of a missing Russian Princess! Some Alexandra of the Romanovs is believed to have been abducted in London. Dear heavens, sometimes the stories that take place in our real life are queerer than John's embellishments of my work. We shall see tomorrow, how bizarre this one might turn out. I am very confident I know what happened down to the most intimate details. Yet, we still have to find the lady which is a shame. It means I shall have to leave our rooms and do some running which I hate doing for cases this simple. But enough for now – I am exhausted._

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE NORTHERNER, Cont.

Holmes woke me up at seven next morning, standing next to my bed fully dressed.

"Morning, man, hurry up, we cannot lose a minute!"

From the excitement in his eyes I could tell the detective was getting into his usual state of agitated concentration, every sense on alert and committed to solve the case. I put my clothes on quickly, and fifteen minutes later we were in the cab, heading to Scotland Yard.

There, we met with the policeman in charge of the yesterday's search  for the missing Duchess. He told us very much the same story we had already heard from Mycroft Holmes. His people found the abandoned cabriolet in the Docklands. It was lying on its side, doors open, and the top partly torn off. The horse was still tackled up, trapped in the harness, suffering greatly. They discovered, the policeman continued, a few feminine items such as shoes and hats thrown around. They took them back to the palace to show to Duchess' maid who testified that they had belonged to Her Grace Ksenia and her governess.

As I imagined, Holmes was not satisfied with the policeman's report. First, he asked where those hats and shoes were now and, upon learning they had been brought back to the police station, he demanded to inspect them. I followed him into the evidence vault, and there we were given a tin box with two pairs of lace shoes and two satin hats, one green and one azure. Holmes inspected all items, eyeing them closely. With a smirk, he turned to me:

"What would you make out of this peculiar set of evidence, doctor?"

"Well..." I felt positively out of ideas. "Are those all newly bought?"

"Precisely." Holmes gave me an approving smile, twisting one of the shoes in his hands. "The shoes are very rigid, and you can see a splash of fresh blood right here inside. And here, too." He pointed at a small brown spot inside the right shoe of the second pair. "I think, Duchess and her companion were given new clothes and shoes for their journey to London. Perhaps, yesterday was the first time they put those on. Walking in shoes like this must have been quite a torture for both ladies."

I could not contain my adoration at my friend's perceptiveness.

"Well, what does it mean, then? Did whoever abducted them take their shoes off so they would not be able to run away? There is really so far one can walk in London barefoot."

"Or in shoes like this," added Holmes, donning his hat. "Come along, Watson, we need to see the cabriolet now."

To Holmes' obvious displeasure, the cabriolet had been moved to Scotland Yard from the abduction scene. Complaining about how the senseless police always contaminated crime scenes, he nevertheless proceeded to examine the cab. It seemed that the results of his examination left him satisfied: extremely focused, Holmes crawled under, climbed on top of, and strode around the carriage, checking its wheels, doors, and seats, and whispering deductions to himself for quite some time, as I stood nearby, watching and waiting. Finally, he turned to me, eyes shining victoriously.

"My dear friend, the idiots known to you by the name of police have not been able to spoil the evidence completely this time. I think we must be really close to the truth of Duchess Ksenia's disappearance."

"By Jove, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "Do not keep me in the dark!"

Sherlock Holmes gave me one of his mischievous looks.

"All in its own time, dear doctor. I still have to test some elements of my theory. And find the ladies, too."

Not giving away any more insights into his theory, Holmes suggested we go the port of London next. We were just outside Scotland Yard, hailing a cab, when Billy Wiggins, one of the Baker Street Boys gang of Holmes' little helpers, ran over to us, with a note in his hand.

"This is for you, Mister Holmes. Mister policeman said it is urgent."

Giving the boy a shilling, Holmes opened the letter, ran over it quickly and yelped.

"Oh."

"What is it, Holmes?"

"Miss Elise Hutchins." Holmes turned to face me, looking startled. "Her body was just found in Limehouse. With a bludgeoned head."

The note said that poor Miss Hutchins' brother, Archibald, had been summoned to identify the body - which he did. Holmes wanted to talk to the young man, and we went to the Yard's mortuary.

We met Mr. Archibald Hutchins in the small room outside of the mortuary's main chambers. He was a mousy-haired man of about twenty, dressed modestly but with a sense of that special pride folks of less fortunate means often put into their clothes. He was not a very handsome looking gentleman but his smart eyes and protruding frontal lobes betrayed intelligent and earnest personality. Knowing he was a fellow medico, I took an instant liking to the man.

Clearly shaken by the loss of his sister, Mr. Hutchins tried to cover his sorrow behind a reserved demeanor. He shook our hands and asked how he could be of assistance to the great detective.

"I am thoroughly sorry about your sister, Mr. Hutchins," said Holmes, looking sincerely sympathetic. "And I am sorry to make you relive the horrifying memories, but I need you to tell me from the beginning, what kind of person your sister was, and what happened to-day."

"Well," Hutchins sighed. "I have always been very fond of my sister. She was a selfless soul, you know, who did everything she could to care for others, first and foremost, me."

"Our father died when she was fifteen and I eight, and our poor mother followed him a year later. Save for our family house, we were penniless orphans with no one in the whole world to turn to. Lizzie decided to take a job of a governess, and that brought us a small subsistence, barely enough to live on without debt and hunger. First she worked for a family in Surrey, to be close to me but it was soon clear that she would not be able to make enough to put me through school and university had she stayed in England. It was her idea that I should become a doctor, you see. So she heard from someone that demand was growing for governesses and lady companions among the rich families of Russia and she felt she had to have a crack at it. That was five years ago, and I was nearly finished with school, getting ready to come to London to study medicine. Lizzie was sad to have to go that far away, to a foreign country, but she knew she would be able to earn much more there, so off she went. We have not seen each other since but exchanged letters regularly. I knew she had found a fairly good job working for one of the aristocratic houses in Saint Petersburg and she kept sending money to help my studies. I often thought, Mr. Holmes, that she was too good for this world: kind, gentle, caring. She sacrificed her youth and womanly happiness for me, did I tell you this? She could have married and had a family but chose to work instead. She was an angel on earth, my sister." Hutchins' voice broke down, and, with shaking hands, he whipped out a kerchief to wipe the tears away from his eyes.

Holmes listened attentively, and only asked a question when Hutchins looked like he was finished.

"So you never met your sister again, eh?"

"Actually, we were supposed to meet yesterday." Hutchins looked like he was going to wail. Having lost a sister myself, I felt so much sympathy for the poor fellow and wanted to end this torture as soon as possible. Holmes, however, was far from done.

"Please, Mr. Hutchins, continue. Her Grace Ksenia must be still alive and her fate might depend on how much you can tell us."

A slight tremor ran through Hutchins' body as he began to speak again.

"A month ago I received a letter from Lizzie. She told me that Her Grace was coming to London and bringing her along. I could not be happier - finally, we could see each other again. In the letter, she promised to send me a wire once she was in London and I could not wait for it to come through. On Wednesday, I found out from papers that the Duchess had arrived in London and I knew I should be hearing from Lizzie soon. But the day passed and then another, and her wire never came. I even went to the Clarence House yesterday to inquire about her but no one would speak to me, let alone let me in to look for her. I was becoming more and more restless, developing a gut feeling that something terrible must have happened to Lizzie when the news came this morning. I rushed to the mortuary to experience the worst moment in my life. To see my beloved sister, dead, with her face smashed into a bloody mess..." The young man was trembling again. Something in what he had said must have agitated Holmes, for he jumped on the student with more questions.

"You said her face was bludgeoned?"

"Completely, sir. It was such a gruesome sight."

"How did you recognize her, then, may I ask?"

The question seemed to have made Hutchins perplexed. He blinked twice and was silent for a moment before speaking again.

"It was the family medallion."

"She had the medallion, passed on to her by our late mother. She wore it at all times, and would never part with it. I recognized it on the corpse. Also, the Duchess' maid was there too, and she said the dress on the body belonged to Lizzie. It was her, Mr. Holmes, I wish I could doubt it, but I cannot."

Holmes nodded and turned to me.

"I see no reason to keep Mr. Hutchins any longer. My sincere condolences again, dear fellow. Come along, Watson."

And so we left the mortuary and went home. On our way out and later in the cab, my friend was absently quiet, deep in thoughts. I did not dare to disturb him.

It was still early in the afternoon when we returned to Baker Street. Holmes went to his bedroom and reemerged from it half hour later, disguised as a sailor. As before, I could hardly conceal my amazement at his ability to transform into a completely different person each and every time. Looking at the red-bearded and dark skinned fellow, who was wearing a neckcloth, a rugged old jacket and canvas trousers, and swaggering towards me in a maritime fashion, I was probably too eloquent in my silent expression, so Holmes burst out a laugh.

"You are flattering me, dear boy. I might have some protean abilities but let me assure you, they are far beyond singular."

I did not even bother commenting on how Holmes read my thoughts again. Instead, I asked what he had on his mind, to which Holmes answered in the accent that would make every old salt jealous, that he was going for a walk to the Docklands and it should not take longer than a couple of hours. I wished him best of luck and spent the rest of the afternoon sorting out my papers. It was not until late in the evening, though, when Holmes was back. There was something queer about his appearance. Having removed the sailor disguise and changed back to his domestic clothes, he proceeded straight to playing the violin, ignoring supper and yours truly. I began feeling that the case was the reason of my friend's confusing behavior and knew better than annoy him with questions. Instead, I sat in my chair quietly, lending my unassuming company and support to the brilliant mind whose work was evolving in front of my very eyes, taking the shape of the beautiful music coming out from underneath Holmes' long fingers. To-night it was not something I knew so I figured my friend must have been improvising. It was a sad melody that reminded me of the way a she-swan cries over her husband when the latter is killed by a heartless hunter. Holmes played and played, until the lights outside went down and only the street gas lamp was left shining dimly, illuminating the fog thickening over the city. I felt it was time to sack out and raised from the chair to say good night, when Holmes stopped playing abruptly and looked at me. He was obviously conflicted and for the love of God I could not make out what it was that got to him.

"Listen, my boy. There is something I need to tell you about the case before you choose to follow me in it any longer."

"What is it, Holmes?"

"It is a difficult one, I must admit. And so far it is looking like things might turn very dangerous very fast. Before you say you are no stranger to all matters dangerous - what I never doubted about you, by the way, I also need to say that, after to-day's events I had to adjust my theory and now, if I turn out to be correct, we might uncover some appalling affairs. With all due respect, Watson, I do not know if you could stomach it."

"So please, think about what I have just told you. If you decide to give this one a pass I shall be very obliged by your sanity and perhaps even a little relieved."

Never in my life had my friend sounded so odd. I did not know if I should feel offended or worried. In the end, I decided to take the middle path.

"Dear Holmes, I respect your concerns even though I do not necessarily understand them. However, let me tell you this. We have been through a lot together, and have seen a lot of strange things. Some of them were bizarre and others gory. Yet, never in my life have I seen you try to talk me out of assisting you. I hope this present moment will show the utmost futility of this silly idea of yours and you will never attempt something like this again. Besides, I had much rather you tell me what on earth this case is about and let me decide whether it is appalling or not."

Holmes gave me a pensive look.

"Very well. I expected nothing less from your response, good doctor. To-morrow, you will have all your answers given to you. Good night, and rest well."

_FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_July 18, Baker Street, London._

_To-day was not what I had expected of it._

_First, I had a short but unpleasant conversation with John this morning. As I had been waiting for him to get dressed, I noticed that he had already started typing up the case of Princess Alexandra: he must have done it last night, when I went to bed. I picked up the first page from the thin pile next to his typewriter. The very first sentence of his account made me furious, and I had to confront him on our way to the Yard._

_"So you think this case is worthy of your readers’ attention,” I started in the cab._

_“Sure it is,” John nodded. “Especially after you said last night that you knew what happened.”_

_“Very well then. Be sure to change the names of the persons involved, will you?”_

_John gave me another nod. It was the time to attack._

_“Also… I must say the reference to your wife in the opening paragraph made little sense to me. After all she had done to you, to me, to both of us - I am surprised you are so willing to keep putting her in your stories."_

_John looked uncomfortable. His eyes avoiding mine, he admitted, hesitantly, that it was his editor’s request._

_“He thinks it adds domesticity to my recounting of our adventures, and I cannot argue. If there was no Mary, it would be just two bachelors fighting crime of the London underworld. Which is fine for you and me, but a lot of my readers are fair ladies, and Mr. Doyle believes they need a bit of romance.”_

_John is good at a lot of things, but he is a bad liar. By the way he was peering into the window, by the twitching of his jaw, and by the restless movements of his hands I knew in the instant that what he was saying was false. However, I decided against pressing him any further. After all, there is very little truth of our real adventures in John's stories anyway._

_Next, the case. The primary investigation only proved my suspicions and just when I thought I had solved the puzzle, it became more complicated. The missing Princess’ lady companion, Miss Ida Thorne, turned up dead with her face disfigured, apparently, and that fact seriously altered my plan of action. Meeting with her brother only confirmed that lately I have been surrounded by bad liars. Spending time in the Docklands with sailors and shipbuilders was quite helpful. Now I know what happened. After a certain sighting at the Golden Anchor Inn everything became so immensely clear to me it almost hurt in its simplicity. But now I am facing another problem: should I tell John? Knowing exactly what I shall do to-morrow about Princess Alexandra’s case, I do not know if I should expose him to the truth and the aftermath. I tried to talk him out of assisting me but he just sniffed. John, you do not know what you are about to witness. Very soon, it might become too difficult for me not to reveal myself before your eyes. Can I confess in my own private journal that I am afraid?_

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE NORTHERNER, Cont.

We headed to the port of London early next morning. In the cab, Holmes finally revealed parts of his theory to me.

"You know, dear Watson, I suspected foul play right from the start. My professional intuition is rarely wrong and in this case I noticed nearly every sign of a daring endeavor aiming to appear the opposite of itself. My theory is that both the Duchess and her loyal lady companion are alive and well and are responsible for their own disappearance."

"How is it possible, you might wonder? Let me tell you. First, yesterday I immediately felt that our fellow Hutchins was lying. The way his eyebrows twitched and his almost unconscious yet compulsive desire to cover his mouth with the kerchief, as well as his unpreparedness to answer my simple question about the identification of his sister's body - all this screamed ‘liar’ to me. So after I disguised myself, I went to the St. Thomas hospital and waited for him to finish his work. When the young man showed up, carrying a large bag, I followed him. Guess where he went? To the port! He entered the Golden Anchor which is one of the inns near the Albert Dock and spent quite some time there, as I hid in the back alley nearby. When he finally left the inn, the bag was no longer on him. So his sister and her noble employer must be renting a room in the inn, I reasoned, and that led me to spend another hour and a half in the inn's tavern, hoping the lady would come downstairs. Alas, she never did. But I am certain this is where she has spent these two days."

"Now, Watson, it was highly suspicious to me from the beginning that a young lady of royal bloods would be willing to drive a cabriolet by herself and refuse a coachman. Like I said earlier, it hints at an extraordinary courage, and what else then such a courageous person would be ready to do? Everything, I suppose. And let us see what she has done. The mud splashes on the cabriolet's wheels were all from the port area. Hence she drove it right there, having it all planned out in her head. The scratches on the cab’s left side indicated it was simply flipped over, rather than collided with anything. Therefore, the Duchess must have driven the cab to the inn, where our new friend Mr. Hutchins must have been waiting. With his help, she made it look like the carriage had been attacked by a gang of abductors: they pushed the cab on its side and even spattered some blood inside. Did you notice yesterday that there was a fresh bandage on Mr. Hutchins’ left wrist? They also left some articles like shoes and hats near the cab to create an appearance of a struggle and attempted escape. That was exactly what you were thinking, was it not? They intended for precisely that impression all along."

As often, my friend was speaking too fast, and every word coming from his mouth required heavy thinking, so I needed a clarification.

"But why, Holmes, why would they do such a bizarre thing?"

"This is where it comes to the matters of questionable morals I warned you about. I suspect highly, that our noble northerner must be in love with someone who is not her fiancé."

"I imagine, it is hard to be a person of royal origins as it is, because the responsibilities these people are born into oftentimes go beyond their own interests or wishes. But it must be twice as hard to be a royal person of the fair sex. For if kings and princes in similar situations of a romantic conflict can at least abdicate and live a happy life with ones of their own choosing, queens and princesses - and duchesses - are not even allowed such a right. Our Ksenia must be really desperate if she resolved to measures as shocking as staging her own abduction and her governess’ death. My feeling is, she is determined to leave Europe as soon as possible. Last night, after waiting for her in vain, I hung about a few taverns for a few more hours. I learned that the _Hispanica_ is leaving for Argentina at nine in the morning to-day and that it has a few passenger cabins for persons wishing to emigrate. I bet Her Grace and Miss Hutchins are going to be among these persons. I also think her paramour must be already off, probably waiting for her in Buenos Ayers. We shall see very soon."

"But how are you going to find her, Holmes? The ship must be full of passengers."

"It is not a very large ship, Watson. Besides, I know what to look for."

And that was it. Striving for a dramatic effect, none the less, Holmes would not utter a single word until our ride was over, and all I had to do was sit back in the cab and marvel at the genius of my friend who managed to solve another intricate puzzle.

We arrived at the port and found the _Hispanica_ right away. She was a brand new steamship, not as large as the ocean liners sailing from Southampton or Liverpool but impressive nonetheless. Claiming to be somebody's relatives wishing to see their darlings off, we climbed up the gangways and headed to the second class level - Holmes reasoned that our escapee would not want to book a stateroom for the fear of attracting unwanted attention, and neither she would be able to stand traveling as a steerage passenger. So second class it was. Not surprisingly, soon Holmes was talking to a young boy who looked vaguely familiar. I guessed he must have been one of the Baker Street Boys' gang. I was right: having waived the boy off, Holmes explained that he had hired him to watch over the ship since dawn to make sure we would not miss the arrival of our lady. According to the boy, she had not come yet, which was obviously what Holmes hoped for.

We waited for another forty minutes in the hallway, watching the passengers and their friends throng by. For a second, I got distracted and allowed myself a silly fantasy of being one of them, equipped with a large suitcase and all but ready to leave the homeland for distant shores and new beginnings. What were all those people seeking that England could not give to them? Would it really be better to start anew in a foreign land, where no one speaks your language, the Crown does not lend you any protection, and the seasons are so messed up that December marks the beginning of summer? And yet, having spent enough time in India and Afghanistan, I was no stranger to the thrill of travel and the pleasure of being surrounded by the exotic. Had my life taken a different turn, perhaps, I indeed might have been one of those emigrants leaving all they knew behind and longing to discover new horizons.

I could have spent hours in such idle dreaming, but suddenly Holmes was grabbing my arm and pointing towards a couple coming down from the stairs.

"Watson, here they come! Quick, look in the other direction."

I turned towards the wall, frantically searching for a spot of the wallpaper that would be worth my attention, and thus I did not see the couple until they walked past us. All I could make out was that they were a short woman in a veiled hat and a tall boy, perhaps a page, carrying all their luggage. As soon as we were behind them, Holmes picked up a suitcase from the pile stacked near the staircase and, gesturing, urged me to follow them. He was ahead of me, tiptoeing in silence, and keeping a distance of about ten feet between the couple and himself. We reached the far end of the hallway where the woman and the boy stopped in front of the next to the last cabin on the right and went inside it. Next second we heard the click of the door lock, but that did not seem to discourage my friend. With the suitcase in his left hand and still holding my arm with his right one, he stopped in front of the same cabin, sat the suitcase on the floor and pulled on the doorknob, as if not knowing that the door was locked. Next, he knocked three times. After a short pause, the door opened revealing the boy behind it, who was eyeing us apprehensively. Almost as tall and thin as Holmes, he was wearing thick-rimmed spectacles, and dressed in plain black breeches and a hideous maroon velvet waistcoat. His huge cap was in his hands. I was certain he was no older than fourteen, perhaps even younger.

Holmes looked a little lost and was smiling sheepishly.

"Is this the second class cabin number fifteen-five-three? My brother and I have booked it to Argentina."

"There must be a mistake, sir," the boy replied in a high voice, and there was something odd about his accent. "My mistress and I are travelin' in it."

"How is that possible?" Holmes turned to me, all worried, and only a slight glimpse in his eyes was betraying that it all had been a ruse. "You said this is our cabin."

I could do nothing better than to put the most shocked expression on my face. Holmes turned back to the boy.

"A thousand of apologies, dear fellow, there must be a mistake indeed. I am certain my brother has booked this very cabin for the two of us months ago. Why would you not let us come in, compare our tickets and figure it all out? I would hate to do in this cramped hallway."

The boy turned back nervously, as if checking with his mistress, and then turned back to us, nodding quickly and letting us in. We stepped inside and found ourselves in a tidy but clean cabin, furnished with a small wardrobe, two berths and a toilet table. The lady, who I thought must have been the duchess, was still wearing a veiled hat, and sitting on one of the berths, her luggage case next to her.

"Let us see..." muttered Holmes, reaching inside his coat, as if searching for the tickets. The boy stood waiting, his own tickets in hand. Next, instead of producing tickets, Holmes quickly turned to the door and pulled it close, turning the knob to lock it. Then, before the boy could stop him, Holmes was kneeling before him, with the most reference I had seen him capable of in a while.

"I must beg your forgiveness for this little trick me and my friend Doctor Watson have just pulled on you. But you must admit you and Miss Hutchins were also trying to trick quite a few people lately. Two nations exactly, to be precise, Your Grace."

The boy's pale face turned paper white, and the veiled lady made a quiet gasp. I must have looked quite startled too, for Holmes smiled at me and continued.

"To a layman's eye you must look quite convincing as a page boy, Your Grace, but you still have quite a few tells. First, you hair. It has been cropped hastily, in a rush, by someone who is clearly not a master barber, and very recently, too, judging by the sharp edges of your fringe. So it was your lady companion Miss Hutchins, I conclude, who gave you this charming cut, and no earlier than yesterday. Am I right?"

The Duchess, for it was undeniably her, lifted her left hand and touched her hair, stunned. Holmes nodded affirmatively and went on.

"Then, your skin. It is snow white, and very soft, I suppose, and despite all London's fog and rain, no boy servant would ever have skin like this. While a member of Russian aristocracy who has spent most of her life in sunless Saint Petersburg definitely would."

"Finally, your accent. It is almost non-existent, what I think is easy to attribute to the talents of your English governess who has obviously taught you well. However, your slightly fricative ‘r’ is very characteristic of someone whose mother tongue belongs to the Slavic family. It only took me to hear you say a couple of words to know who I was speaking to. Not to mention that, even though the photograph of you I had seen was showing you only down to the waistline, I could tell by the width of your shoulders you were rather unusually tall, and your companion Miss Hutchins was described to me as petite. You can see now, Your Grace, how easy it was for me to find you."

Everyone in the cabin was still silent so Holmes kept talking.

"Now, the impending marriage must be of greatest inconvenience to you if you decided to flee. There must be an affair of heart at play, but where is he? Must be on another boat, or perhaps already waiting in Argentine, across the Atlantic, this much is clear. The only thing that still baffles me is why would you have to stage your companion's death?"

"So _he_ would not suspect anything." Miss Elise Hutchins, who had been quiet before, took her hat off by that time and started talking, looking straight into Holmes' eyes. She was pretty upset and her typically English features were radiating anger and despair.

"Oh, Lizzie." Replied Ksenia grudgingly, turning to her friend for a second before returning her furious gaze to the detective.

"You are Sherlock Holmes, are you not? Lizzie's brother warned us about you, but we thought we were being clever and even the great consulting detective would not find us." She sniffed.

"Anyways, from what I have read about you, according to your biographer," she waived a hand in my direction, "you must be a man incapable of emotion, an automaton, all calculating mind and no heart at all. So I doubt you will understand why we had to do it."

At that, Holmes returned her gaze and for a second I thought that there was something rueful in his eyes.

"Please, Your Grace, oblige me."

The duchess was quiet for a moment and then she walked to her friend and sat next to her, taking her hands in hers. She no longer looked angry, just very sad and defeated. In an even tone, she started talking.

"My fiancé is a monster. I do not know if either of you two is familiar with the abominable writings of Marquis de Sade, but let me tell you, Duke George is his most diligent apprentice. He is as immoral as it gets, and he receives his highest pleasure from torturing those around him. He does not love me and never did. Moreover, I know for sure that, had we married, he would use his indefinite power over me to make my life a living hell. For instance, knowing how close Lizzie and I are, he was quick to become jealous, and the first thing he told me when we met in London the other day was that he would get rid of her the next minute after we are wed. He knew that I hated him, and if we tried to disappear, he would suspect a foul play right away and would not believe in the abduction story unless he knew Lizzie was not there with me, so we had to stage her murder. Thankfully, Archie was able to find a corpse resembling her and the rest of it, I suppose, you know."

Holmes was quiet. With a sigh, Ksenia continued.

"After George threatened me, I knew we had to run. Finally, an opportunity arouse and I could not refuse it. I wired Lizzie's brother to meet us in the Docklands where he helped me to arrange for the cabriolet to look like it had been attacked. In Russia, I used to wear men's clothes all the time when hunting or racing and never traveled without a set of a waistcoat and trousers in my suitcase. I changed into it and decided to leave our horrible shoes by the cab to confuse the police. They were impossible to walk in anyway. Next, Archie booked us this cabin and we thought the luck was on our side. I was so proud of myself, Mr. Holmes. I thought I could take my fate in my own hands and do what no woman could do before. I thought I was different, thought I was free to follow my heart and choose whom to love. You were right to assume that there is someone in my life I swore myself to, and this is also why I absolutely cannot marry Prince George or anyone else. I do not wish to be a part of the royal court anymore if this is the price I have to pay for my happiness."

As she spoke, her face was becoming softer and softer, as if giving up and accepting her fate, and finally I could recognize the beautiful young woman from the older Holmes' photograph. Her eyes were dry but the sound of her voice was absolutely grave as she was finishing her story.

"Oh my, Mr. Holmes. I thought no one would ever find us or even understand what had happened before we were gone. Little did I know that the great detective Sherlock Holmes was going to take up our case. Well, they call you great for a reason."

Miss Elise was crying silently in the back. I felt terrible. Holmes was staring blankly into space, still not saying a word. His victorious arrogance of the earlier moment seemed to have vanished.

I felt the urge to break the uncomfortable silence.

"What are you going to do now?"

"We cannot go back." Duchess answered bitterly. "George will sure find some particularly cruel way to revenge us. Perhaps it is better just to take my life and be done with it."

At that, Miss Elise started weeping loudly. I felt that I was not in the position to comfort her.

From the corridor, the steward announced the ship was embarking in ten minutes, ordering all acquaintances and friends of the passengers to leave. Sherlock Holmes got up, reaching for my arm.

"Well, ladies, I think we are done here and better be off." Both women - and yours truly - shivered, looking at the detective in utmost disbelief, as he bowed to the Duchess.

"Let me wish you a happy journey. Good-bye."

Now it was the Duchess' turn to tear up, still shocked and whispering words of gratitude. Holmes waved off whatever she tried to mumble and turned towards the door.

"Watson, my man, it is the time. Come!" With that, he left. Confused and surprised, I followed suit.

_FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_July 19, Baker Street, London_

_I am writing this down because I have to write it down. I no longer know what future holds for me and the odds are high that John will leave to-morrow for good. I am no longer certain in anything about myself but perhaps chronicling my descent into uncertainty might prove a good exercise in retrospect, and even though I loathe everything about it, I still feel an unstoppable urge to immortalize to-day’s events in ink and paper._

_This morning, we found the Princess and her companion just like I had expected. She was disguised in the same page boy garb as yesterday, when I saw her at the Golden Anchor. An easy trick allowed us to get inside the cabin they were going to occupy where I exposed Alexandra and Ida to John. He calls me a dramatist for a reason, because I still find hard to resist these little moments of bringing shock upon everyone in the room. Yet, to-day’s encounter was probably not worth the effort: as I was speaking about the true nature of the relationship between the two women, suggesting that Duke Albert must have found out about it and that was the reason behind the staged abduction and escape, John’s face went paler and paler, while Miss Ida started crying and the brave Princess was shaking with anger._

_“You are absolutely correct, Mr. Holmes,” she finally said, hiding trembling hands in the pockets of her page boy waistcoat. "First we thought our fate would be like one of many before us. I would marry my royal husband but keep Ida nearby, and, hopefully, after I gave birth to an heir, Albert would let me alone in favor of all his other lovers: sometimes philandering comes in so handy. But just like you said, the morning before yesterday he walked onto us in the indiscreet position. You cannot imagine the wicked delight in his eyes. Now he had unlimited power over me and knew it. He was going to ruin us. He was going to commit unspeakable offences to Ida. We had to flee.”_

_“I understand the opprobrium I have put onto myself and my nation,” she continued, looking at me. “And I know I am selfish and probably ill, but let me own it, and let me pay. I am prepared to pay the full price, Mr. Holmes. And you should know that neither Ida nor I are leaving this ship." Just like I expected, she produced a small revolver from her waistcoat pocket and aimed it at me._

_"Now, please, leave."_

_"No, Sashenka, you are not being reasonable," spoke Ida. "We have lost at this game, it is time we admitted it. Even if he leaves now, he knows about us and he will notify the police and the court, so when we reach Argentina, there will be people waiting for us. You will only put yourself through disgrace." She wept, tears rolling down her face._

_The Princess considered her lover's words and lowered the revolver, her eyes still dark with rage._

_I felt sadness overcoming me. John was standing next to me, his face blank, startled. Now it was the time for the act two of Sherlock Holmes’ great performance of self-destruction. I took my doctor’s hand and bowed to the Princess one more time, wishing the two lovers best of luck. Then, before they could do something unnecessarily sentimental, I left, talking John away from the ship, back to London._

_I spent the afternoon hiding in my bedroom. I could not bring myself to look into John's eyes. He has been quiet all day, too. Mycroft sent a note, inquiring about my progress. I lied in my reply that I still had not found a lead. Which was useless, obviously, because with Mycroft's people everywhere, he must have been notified about my every step and must have already figured it all out for himself. Well, I have not heard back from him, which is an achievement. I do not think I could deal with my brother’s fury right now._

_I wonder sometimes about courage. Perhaps, and I am very unwilling to admit it even to myself – especially to myself - the real reason why I swore my life to an exercise in cold thinking that usually takes the form of crime solving is that I just have never been very brave. Agreeably, when one is inclined the way I am, there are not many opportunities to live a satisfying life of a romance to begin with. But there have been opportunities in my life: I just never acted on them. First Victor, then Reggie, now John. My precious John. John whose admiration and respect keep me right. John who fascinates me, and does not know it. John who has saved my life so many times. John who returned to me after the misery of his marriage. But everyone - him included - think I am aloof, cold, calculating and not very human after all. I feel that I need to stand up to the expectations. Not that there is anything else left for me. Being a perfect reasoning machine is better than being a heartbroken romantic, this much is true. So here I am – the great detective, the only one of the kind in the whole world, and yet I cannot solve the greatest problem of my own life. Perhaps, I just never had the guts to try. I still do not._

_And yet, there are young women these days who apparently are not daunted by what the law or the society might think of them. There are women who are brave. And there is Sherlock Holmes who is not. A Sherlock Holmes who has always believed a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Who has always settled for friendship and never asked for more, even though ‘more’ has always been what he truly wanted._

_John just knocked on the door to invite me for supper. Time to go into battle._

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE NORTHERNER, Cont.

Our cab ride home was eerily silent. Furthermore, my friend had not sad another word until dinner, spending the afternoon in his room, probably sleeping. It started raining buckets around supper time, as my shoulder was quick to remind me about. Soon a terrible thunderstorm was tearing up the London sky, as the showers washed away the city's heat and dust in powerful streams. I was sparking up the logs in the fireplace when Holmes emerged from his bedroom, looking pale and exhausted, his sharp cheekbones even more pronounced than usual. I ushered him to the dining table and saw that he ate supper. After, I poured us two generous glasses of brandy. Holmes took his from me with a clear expression of gratitude, walking to his chair as I settled in mine. As I savored the drink, a nagging thought arose in my head and it would not leave me in peace, no matter how hard I tried to distract myself from it, thinking instead about the weather, the politics, or how Mrs. Hudson had managed to procure such excellent partridge for supper. I knew my fellow lodger had a complex personality but what he did today was enigmatic even according to his own standards of behavior. I had to ask.

"Holmes, I must say I am startled. You let them get away."

My friend was nestled in the chair by the fire, curling around himself like a big cat. The light coming from the fireplace colored the soft velvet of his purple gown positively reddish. Stuffing his pipe, the detective looked past me, and that dreamy expression of his eyes that I have not seen in months was back. Actually, I could swear that despite his obvious fatigue, he looked happy, contemplative, and almost romantic. My suspicions were only exacerbated when Sherlock Holmes finally spoke, blowing the smoke out of his mouth.

"My dear Watson, remember the case of the Bohemian King?"

"Oh, the one that left you so impressed."

"You mean that I was impressed by the Woman? Yes, that story."

I said nothing. I knew where Holmes was heading in his explanation and desperately wanted the words to come from himself. The great detective did not make me wait for it, continuing in slow, pensive sentences:

"‘The Scandal in Bohemia,’ as you playfully named it, was about a coward man trying to cover up his impotence to take his fate in his own hands by the masquerade of royal responsibilities and other rubbish excuses. You see, Watson, I did not believe a word he said that if Miss Adler had been of noble origins, he would have married her right away. That was a pusillanimous excuse. Today, however, we witnessed a strong soul, undeterred by her origins and royal standing."

"And a woman, too." I could not help it but add. Holmes chuckled.

"Yes, a very brave woman, indeed. Perhaps, the stern climate of the Russian steppe makes them that way? Anyways, she is a woman and a Duchess of royal bloods, and it did not stop her from following her will. You know my general ideas about sentiment, Watson, but even Sherlock Holmes cannot but admire the strength of the heart."

"But what are you going to tell your brother? He will turn absolutely monstrous on you if he finds out you had let them go."

"Not 'if,' my dear boy - it is a question of 'when.' Mycroft will turn monstrous when he finds out. And we shall think of that bridge when we cross it."

We sat in silence for some time. Holmes was smoking by the fire, his thoughts obviously elsewhere, and I was still in the quiet awe of what I had just heard. Sherlock Holmes just admitted to being a romantic, or at least, to respecting a true love. All I could conclude from it was that even after all those years I spent next to him, there was still many a mystery left to the very peculiar and rare soul that was my intimate companion, Sherlock Holmes.

_FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF SHERLOCK HOLMES_

_July 20, Baker Street, London._

_I am not a very religious man. John can testify I seldom bring my person to church on Sundays, let alone say prayers on the daily basis. I do not. But after this night I think I might have just become a true and fervent believer – at least, in the mighty powers of Anteros, whose sensual monument has been adorning Piccadilly Circus since last year. But I digress._

_I should start from the beginning, should I not? Last night, over supper and brandy, as I anticipated, John asked why I had chosen to let Her Highness Alexandra and Miss Thorne alone. I explained, as laconically as I could, that I admired bravery and willingness to make one’s own fate – partly because I myself was lacking in it. I knew I was exposing the most secret and private parts of my person and that he should conclude about my feelings for him. John is not an idiot. But he said nothing. He just sat in his chair, drinking brandy, looking past me. I finished my drink, wished him good night and retired to my bedroom._

_I was in bed, going over my notes on the variations in the types of handwriting depending on the degree of a distress a person is in when engaging in the act, when I heard a gentle knock on the door. It did not sound like John: usually his knocking is all but pronounced and definite, just like John himself. It did not sound like Mrs. Hudson either: after all these years of her suffering me as her lodger, her knocking lost any reverence that might have been there at the start. This knock was a hesitant one, and I would usually expect a client caught in a controversial affair to knock like this – except it was too late for a client and also, no client had ever knocked on my bedroom door._

_I got up, put my smoking jacket over the nightshirt and opened the door. John was standing behind it, still dressed and holding a candle in hand. His face bore a queer expression I had never seen on him before: it was a mix of fear, desperation, and resolute. An odd feeling arose in me._

_“Doctor,” I said. “What is the matter?”_

_John took a deep breath and looked at me. I felt I could drown in those bottomless blue eyes. Quietly, he asked._

_“Can I come in?”_

_“Absolutely.” I stepped back to let him in. He stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, every movement careful and contained. His left hand was clutching onto the candlestick and he was staring at me as if his very life had depended on his ability to hold my gaze. Then he spoke._

_"You call yourself lacking in bravery, Holmes, but what does it make me then?"_

_“Of all men, Holmes, I have been the biggest coward and I cannot fathom how you still have not deduced it about me.”_

_Speaking of bravery, I could not believe what was happening and felt the strongest urge to deflect._

_"Before you say something you will strongly regret afterwards, you should stop right now."_

_There was defiance in John’s eyes now._

_“Oh no, I am not stopping, not to-night. I also cannot understand why you do not abhor me.”_

_"Me, who keeps putting my abominable wife back in our stories not because of the editor but because of my own fear? My deep, visceral fear of admitting to myself how much you are to me, and how deeply I desire you."_

_I felt that my world was rapidly tumbling upside down and yet I had to ask._

_"Watson, have you been drinking lots to-night?"_

_He frowned as if my question had utterly insulted him._

_"Holmes, I would never..." Then the despair in his eyes became even stronger as he turned around and was about to leave, murmuring "well, if this is what you prefer to think..." I had to stop him. I reached and grabbed him by his sleeve._

_"Watson, wait. I am just... I need to be sure. You remember, eliminating the impossible. And all other factors. So w-w-whatever remains, however im-p-probable..." I was no longer able to maintain a cold exterior, with everything inside me shaking profoundly, so I started staggering._

_“Must be true?”_

_John was looking at me, the corners of his mouth betraying an unbelieving smile, as he put his right hand onto my chest, where the lapels of the smoking jacket met my nightshirt. I realized that it meant his hand was directly over my heart, and that he could feel the rapid heartbeat and the trembling of my body at his touch. I think he liked it quite so, for his eyes went bright and his cheeks flushed, and he was smiling at me, stepping closer._

_“Forgive me, Holmes,” he said, pulling my face to his. “For waiting so long. And for making you wait. I have been a coward but I am not anymore.”_

_His lips were so close to me, setting my insides on fire. I thought I would faint right into his arms like a proper English rose and I needed to say something just to stay conscious. But I was out of words, helpless like a kitten in the well, and eaten alive by desire. I must have been muttering incoherently, because John, still smiling, brushed my lips lightly with his fingers, sending a jolt of lust down my spine. Then he was kissing me: first gently, almost chastely, touching my mouth with his, but with each kiss his desire was growing and soon I felt his soft tongue inside my mouth, pushing in, finding mine and circling around it fervently. I have never been kissed like that before and found the sensation absolutely, heavenly overwhelming. My head was spinning and knees trembling, which John must have felt, for the next second he broke off the kiss and asked me, breathing heavily, “is this what you want? For the love of life, Holmes, tell me this is what you want!”_

_“I d-do, I want it all very much” was all I was capable of saying at the moment but that was enough for John, and the next memory I have is of us in my bed, me prostrate on my back, quivering and moaning, and John on top, unbuttoning my nightshirt. His face was affectionate and victorious, as he was eyeing me up and down, obviously enjoying my havocked look. As he pushed the sides of my shirt away, he gasped, startled, at the physical sign of my attraction to him. All I could do from breaking into a thousand little pieces under his intense gaze was to reach out and touch his cheek, pulling him close for another kiss. He leaned down and kissed my mouth, my ears, my neck, as I felt the hot weight of his body on me, and could not but start grinding against him, feeling his erection through the layers of cotton and wool still separating us._

_“John,” I panted. “Please, John, take your clothes off.”_

_He gave me a stunned look, as if realizing something, then nodded and started unbuttoning his shirt. I helped him out of it, then turned to his trousers, pulling them and the linen underpants down and off. I wished the light in the room had been better, for I wanted to see every part of his body as clearly as it was possible, but even in the dim candlelight John was strikingly handsome. Random thoughts of Greek sculptures crossed my mind as I was kissing his skin and feeling the lean muscles beneath it. “How is it all mine at last” I thought, overcome with adoration. I could see the same wonder in John’s eyes, as he clung to me, locking his legs around the small of my back and encircling my shoulders with his right arm, pulling me so impossibly close and reaching down to touch me. At his very first touch, I was out of breath, holding onto him for the dear life and thinking I would not last another second. He sensed it and eased his hand, smiling mischievously._

_“My boy,” he whispered. “I want to debauch you to-night.”_

_“And I…” I replied, desperately wishing his grasp back on me and simultaneously focusing hard on not climaxing yet. “I can think of exactly seventeen methods you might want to employ to achieve your goal.”_

_John laughed and let go off me, getting up to reach for the nightstand where he picked up the bottle of Indian rose tree oil left from the night he had massaged me. He turned to face me, sitting down Turkish style, his member hard and flushing dark red between his muscular thighs. He opened the bottle, sending around a flowery aroma, and poured some oil into his hand. I stilled in anticipation. Kissing his way down my chest and stomach, John placed his sleek fingers between my posteriors, lubricating the most intimate area of my body. Before I knew what he had in mind, his mouth was on my member and his finger inside me, moving slowly. I felt the torrent of pleasure washing over me, making me tremble and buckle my hips up to meet his mouth. John nodded encouragingly and took me all in, sliding another finger in – and brushing, brushing, brushing. Suddenly, I was so small: reduced to this, to the sensation of his warm mouth melting around me and his intrepid fingers breaching me. Every chamber of my mind palace was flooded over with the kaleidoscope of carnal joys floor to ceiling but for all I know I could not care less. I felt the climax building inside me and there it was, tearing me apart like a dynamite explosion, and I was probably shouting John’s name out, although my memory of the moment and its immediate aftermath is, I hate to say it, hazy. Next thing I remember is John’s lovely face over mine, and my teeth biting onto his already swollen lower lip – tasting him, tasting myself, tasting us – as I stroked him hard and fast through his own release, which was spilling in hot splashes on my stomach. Coming off, he grabbed my hips so tight they bruised later, which I did not mind in the slightest. It felt like he could not let go off me. I do not have to state obvious things and note that I felt the same about him._

_We must have fallen asleep in each other’s arms right after, and for once my little bed was the happiest place on earth and, when I woke up in the wee hours of morning, disoriented and groggy, my first half-asleep thought was that of a surprise at John’s body wrapped around me. The realization came next second and I might have teared up a little, so great was my delight. He is mine now. He has always been, in a way, but now things are finally right between the consulting detective and his doctor. I could not help but caress his serene face. Ejecting a deep sigh, John opened his eyes, smiling at me sleepily._

_“Is it morning already?”_

_“No, it is still too early, you can sleep some more.”_

_“It is not what I want right now.” He was embracing me, hands stroking my back gently. A shade of worry crossed his face._

_“Holmes… Sherlock,” – John corrected himself and I sensed a quiet joy in the way he was pronouncing my Christian name – now when he could do it. “Do you think we will have to leave London?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“Well, we have seen what couples like us had to do. I am talking about Mr. Hall and Mr. Scudder or Her Highness Alexandra and Miss Thorne. They all fled. Which is fine, by the way. I always liked to travel, and the world must be big enough for the likes of us.”_

_I must admit I found his concerns laughable._

_“Do not be preposterous, John. I do not know about the rest of the world, but London is big enough for us. It has always been. Has the carnal way of knowing your fellow lodger completely obstructed your memory? We have been living together under this roof for years now, and I cannot see why this arrangement has to change.”_

_John shoved me in the gut lightly, muttering to himself._

_“Why would I think that sleeping with you would change anything, indeed? You are as unbearable as always. Silly me.”_

_“You are,” I whispered, kissing him. “You absolutely are.”_

_I am finishing this account now, as John is sleeping next to me, exhausted after another moment of the mutual pleasuring we have engaged in not so long ago. It is still raining outside, and the morning looks bleak, but I wish nothing else. One dark night, I started this journal to let my despair out, and now it might be a good time to be done with it, for I hope my days of misery are over. Yet, I think I have just found a better reason to maintain this habit of journal keeping. John may continue writing about all the mediocre cases that I make a living by solving but I have to chronicle this: from now on in this journal, I will catalogue and depict the truth of our love, so suddenly found, at last._

**Author's Note:**

> Crafting the universe of Victorian London, I did a ton of research and used a wide variety of sources. In particular, I would like to thank the tumblr user weeesi whose brilliant series of posts on homosexuality in the 19th century London has been quite a treat for my needs. You can read it [here](http://weeesi.tumblr.com/search/strangers+homosexual+love+in+the+nineteenth+century).


End file.
